


Club Commiseration

by Eva



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-14
Updated: 2011-12-10
Packaged: 2017-10-23 17:50:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/253127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eva/pseuds/Eva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Meme wants Holmes bros moaning about botched attempts at wooing.  So, Sherlock can't stop with the insults and Mycroft thinks he's in a musical or something.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

*********

Two minutes after John and the new woman left, Mycroft tapped politely on the door to the sitting room with his umbrella. “Good evening.”

“Save it,” Sherlock groused from the sofa. “I can’t bear pleasantries.”

“Insulting his date didn’t go over well?” Mycroft said with poisonous sweetness. Sherlock curled up tighter in his dressing gown.

Mycroft picked his way among the piles of things--mostly books and papers, but those that weren’t very definitely weren’t--and carefully levered a seemingly harmless pot from the cleanest chair in the room. “Do you feel up to a consultation?”

“Take your problems and shove them,” Sherlock (probably) said. Mycroft ignored it, making himself as comfortable as he could among the chaos.

“You indicated two years ago that I should prevent myself from noticing Detective Inspector Lestrade,” he said delicately, and Sherlock thrashed out of the sofa like a man fighting out of a shallow grave.

“You’ve gone and become infatuated! And I told you!” he roared, getting up to pace. Mycroft allowed himself the luxury of sighing.

“I haven’t done anything,” he said mildly.

“You don’t know what to do,” Sherlock shot back, and hopped up to perch on the chair opposite Mycroft, glaring at him like Poe’s raven as the carefully piled books and papers he didn’t land on fell all around him. “I will not introduce you.”

“I am perfectly capable of coming up with an opportunity--”

“You’ve already--Mycroft!” Sherlock was up and pacing again. “What, did you offer to bribe him? Offer him apologies for my behavior? Ask him for a cigarette?”

“I first spoke to him after your little game with that Moriarty fellow,” Mycroft snapped, “at his instigation, as he felt it his duty to inform your family about your condition.”

“The gentle beeping of machines and sweet chemical sting of antiseptic, the hallmarks of your romance,” Sherlock said with heavy sarcasm.

Mycroft continued, raising his voice. “A condition, may I remind you, brought on by gross--”

“Heard it, thank you, brother,” Sherlock interrupted, knocking another pile of books over just for the fun of it, it seemed. “So it’s my fault, is it? And for that, I ought to help you?”

“I don’t want your help,” Mycroft said, and sighed again. Sherlock was silent for a long moment, watching him. “Perhaps I... well. I thought we might commiserate, considering your situation with Doctor Watson.”

“My situation--” Sherlock cut himself off midstream and sank back into the chair, long legs stretching out so far his feet almost touched Mycroft’s shoes. “Is intolerable.”

Mycroft felt a tiny lifting of his spirits. “Tell me about it.”

*********

Picture, if you will, a scene of breathtaking domesticity, in which one consulting detective and one ex-army doctor are sharing a quiet evening in, reading an article on the usage of certain chemical compounds in forensic investigations and attempting to update a blog, respectively. The consulting detective looks up from his journal, sneering at the so-called research, and finds himself mesmerised--not for the first time--by the sweep of his flatmate’s tongue over his lips as he considers the spelling of a word--from the position of his fingers as he tries a likely combination of letters, he means to write the word “precipitate.”

He looks to the consulting detective suddenly, as if feeling his gaze, and says, “What?”

The gentle yellow glow of the lamp draws a shadow under the soft fan of his eyelashes, causing an unsurprising and even familiar reaction in the detective’s circulatory patterns as he teases, “Simple words for simple ideas, John.”

The good doctor’s expression switches from comfortably tired to coldly irritated in a split second, and he slams the laptop shut before walking out without another word.

*********

Mycroft hesitated. “Do you--do you always insult him?”

“I was not insulting him!” Sherlock hissed. “I was attempting flirtation!”

“Attempting, yes,” Mycroft said, looking down at his umbrella. He felt embarrassed on his brother’s behalf, and regretted that he couldn’t hide it from Sherlock’s keen eyes. “Perhaps you could try... compliments?”

“I compliment him every day!”

“Referring to him as ‘more reasonable today than two weeks ago’ regarding trash removal, thereby reminding him of your classification of his things as trash two weeks ago, is not a compliment,” Mycroft said as his phone began to ring. “It is grounds for a fight. Do excuse me a moment.”

A brief conversation with Antonia later, he stood and set his umbrella in the crook of his arm. “I’m afraid I am needed at the office.”

Sherlock actually appeared disappointed. “So you aren’t going to reveal how you failed so completely at complimenting Lestrade?”

Mycroft tried not blush--it was undignified. “Tomorrow?”

“Lunch,” Sherlock said, standing. He grinned like a shark. “I haven’t looked forward to a meal with you for such a long time.”

*********

Shift scene. We are no longer gazing into the warm, slightly worn rooms of 221B Baker Street, but into the cold and supposedly efficient halls of New Scotland Yard, wherein lies the office of one Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, who is currently working on a case and a cold cup of coffee (well, if you are the generous sort, you might call it coffee. Mycroft Holmes would sooner call it mud).

But Mycroft has put on his best polite and pleasant face, and taps on the Inspector’s door with his umbrella, a small bag with what he is happy to call coffee in his other hand. The Inspector looks up from his paperwork and flinches, almost invisibly, as he catches sight of Mycroft’s suit (because he hasn’t yet looked at Mycroft’s face, to Mycroft’s disappointment).

“Can I help you?” he says wearily, and Mycroft manages a polite and pleasant smile.

“I wanted to thank you, Inspector, for taking the time to find Sherlock’s family,” he says smoothly, because he has rehearsed this, and takes a step into the cramped space. The next words are lining up in his throat as Lestrade interrupts him.

“Oh, god, you’re Sherlock’s brother, right?” he says, standing up. “No, I’m sorry, I remember--Michael? No, that’s not it.”

“Mycroft,” Mycroft says, and smiles again. “It’s not an easy one to remember, Inspector. Not very common. As I was saying--”

“I hate to interrupt you, but I’m working on a case, and--”

“--just wanted to express my thanks,” Mycroft finishes, and holds out the bag with two smaller bags of freshly ground coffee. Lestrade eyes it as if it’s a bomb. Mycroft continues, a bit desperately, “For your time. And consideration.”

“Yes, um. Thanks,” Lestrade says, and very carefully takes the bag from him and leaves it on the edge of his desk. Mycroft is searching for something--anything--to say, to bridge this incredibly awkwardly moment into the next, hopefully less awkward one, when Lestrade speaks up again. “Thank you. Thanks much. But I have a case, you see, so...”

“Another time,” Mycroft says quickly, and takes his leave before he’s invited to do so once more.

*********

“Well, he was working,” Sherlock said, not looking up from the bit of meat he was torturing with knife and fork. Mycroft watched him silently, his appetite long having fled. “He does that, you know. Detective Inspector. Says it on the door.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Mycroft said.

“It didn’t work out the first time, so you’re bringing it to me?” Sherlock continued. “No. Not at all. What did you do next?”

“I invited him out for coffee,” Mycroft said stiffly.

“He was busy.”

“An important meeting.” It had turned out to be with his telly, concerning a football match. Mycroft had been curious; what if it had been for a case that would require Sherlock?

Sherlock snorted rudely. Between that and the scraping of his knife on the plate, they were getting more than a few dirty looks. “I’m sure. And then?”

Mycroft fidgeted with his umbrella. “A chance meeting at a little wine shop.”

“He was there for a case.”

“Yes,” Mycroft sighed. “Awkward.”

Sherlock finally looked at him. “Have you considered not plotting out your life as if it were a film?”

*********

tbc


	2. Chapter 2

*********

It was Sherlock who instigated their third meeting, barging into Mycroft’s Tuesday office (Sherlock knew the locations of the Tuesday, Friday, and second Sunday offices, Mycroft knew, and suspected that he may well be aware of Monday’s as well) with no more than a ten minute CCTV scan warning, and that was barely enough time to get Abigail to promise not to shoot him.

“He is my brother,” Mycroft reminded her.

“Sir, he is a threat to the security and sanity of this site,” Abigail said grimly. “And he has yet to return the three Blackberries he’s stolen.”

“We did remotely wipe them.”

“That’s not the point, sir.”

While Mycroft would typically be working on something very important that required at least thirty seconds’ worth of attention before he could greet Sherlock, today he skipped their usual brotherly interaction in honor of the sort of truce springing up around their consultations (which Abigail had referred to as “whinging sessions;” Mycroft considered himself above doling out extra work to employees who had irritated him and, indeed, above irritation itself, but Abigail had been so smug about that Harold fellow lately...).

“You’re succeeding remarkably in your goal of getting Lestrade to notice you,” Sherlock drawled, flipping open file folders on Mycroft’s desk in the idle hopes of finding one that wasn’t there for show. He snorted at the one containing Dr. Suess rhymes.

“How so?” Mycroft asked casually, leaning back against the desk.

“He’s asked John if you’re entirely in your right mind.”

Mycroft frowned. “He didn’t appreciate the flowers?”

“I can safely say he did not,” Sherlock said. There was just a hint of sneer in his voice; nevertheless, Mycroft glared.

“I’m sure John appreciated finding you asleep in his bed after returning home from the surgery, with the excuse of escaping the odour from your experiment in the kitchen,” he said sharply.

Sherlock stiffened. “Stop spying on me, Mycroft!”

“I did not spy, you twit, I offered your landlady a considerable amount of money to keep you from being thrown out after she called me in a rage and she was kind enough to tell me why someone was shouting in the background.”

They glared at each other for a long moment, and then Sherlock slumped into Mycroft’s chair and Mycroft twisted to sit on the edge of the desk.

“He let me stay,” Sherlock muttered.

“He spent the night on Mrs. Hudson’s sofa.”

Sherlock made a disgusted noise. “At least he isn’t asking acquaintances if I’m mad.”

“No, he already knows you are.” Mycroft sighed. “He really didn’t like the flowers?”

“Binned them. I hear his team is still making comments.”

“You know the man, Sherlock. Tell me something he’d like,” Mycroft pleaded. He was willing to make an utter fool of himself if it meant one interaction with the Inspector that didn’t end in the both of them wishing the earth would open up and swallow Mycroft Holmes.

“Why would I do that?” Sherlock demanded. “I don’t want you succeeding with my Detective Inspector!”

“Because it will mean tickets to the opera or the symphony or anything you wish for as long as I am indebted to you,” Mycroft said. “You know my work. I wouldn’t monopolise the Inspector’s time, even though I might wish to, as another suitor might. And--”

“I am informed that one does not use the term ‘suitor’ nowadays,” Sherlock interrupted, looking both bored and disturbed. “Lestrade likes... coffee. Solving cases. Working pens. Chewing on said pens--”

“None of that is helpful.”

“Well, I’ve never so much as considered gathering data on how to woo Lestrade, so if I lack a mental catalogue of how to go about it, I apologise,” Sherlock said with heavy sarcasm.

Mycroft lifted an eyebrow. “Never?”

Sherlock scowled. “Maybe once. While high.”

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose. “Go home, clean the kitchen--Sherlock, clean the kitchen. John will appreciate it. If you don’t know how to do it, call Mummy; she’d love to hear from you. And if you give me something useful in three days’ time, I will get you a pair of tickets to whichever show you like, show up while John’s in, insist that you take them, and rope him into going with you. If he doesn’t have suitable attire, I will supply it.”

Sherlock stood, looking wary. “What is ‘useful’?”

“I won’t know until I have it, will I?” Mycroft smiled thinly. “Get out of here. We both of us have work to do.”

*********

-Have something. SH

The “accidental” meeting in the bookshop had not gone as planned. Mycroft had barely had time to acknowledge Lestrade with surprise before the man was barreling out the door, the book he’d been perusing shoved unceremoniously into a shelf. Mycroft had pulled the slim volume of poetry out from among the travel guides and almost lost his composure; Lestrade had been reading a translation of Neruda.

Mycroft purchased the book and kept it in his briefcase, pulling it out every so often and sighing through entire passages (“But wait for me, keep for me your sweetness--” merited a very deep sigh).

But, as he had been unable to even attempt conversation, he was pleased to read Sherlock’s text and hoped that it was indeed “something,” and not another useless bit of workaholic trivia.

“Davis on the nineteenth,” Sherlock said as soon as Mycroft walked into the sitting room. “I’ve sent you John’s measurements in an email; I’m sure your puppet is already on it.”

“She prefers PA,” Mycroft said mildly, taking a seat in the cleanest chair in the room. Sherlock didn’t get up from the sofa.

“Lestrade prefers French roast.”

Mycroft raised both eyebrows. “Is that all?”

“No,” Sherlock said, sitting up at last. His hair stood up in wild curls. “He likes white chocolate, red wines, and horrible old films with Ingrid Bergman. Right up your road.”

“Street,” Mycroft corrected absently. “How did you discover this, may I ask?”

“Having doubts, are we?” Sherlock asked nastily. “I interrogated his ex, of course.”

Mycroft sat absolutely still, feeling as though he’d turned to stone. “No,” was all he managed.

“It isn’t as horrible as you’re thinking. I found him drunk in a pub, proceeded to pour out some false woes, reminisced about fake days of yore, and he responded in kind. He thought I was an old school chum,” Sherlock said, sitting back and staring at Mycroft thoughtfully. “It only took a few days to find him. I suggest you avoid doing so; he’s much fitter than you. You’ll take immediate dislike. Not to mention, he was terrible to Lestrade as well.”

“Terrible how?” Mycroft demanded.

“Cheated on him. Thought he worked too much, decided to fill that time with other activities.” Sherlock stood up and dusted off his hands, as if washing them of the entire affair. “I stuck him with the tab.”

Mycroft felt a bit cheered at that. Sherlock, even when only pretending to drink, did not pretend cheaply.

“The relationship ended a few months ago; Lestrade will probably be skittish about entering another for some time,” Sherlock said with relish. “Poor brother Mycroft. Ah, well; he’s thrown himself into his work, and that bodes well for me.”

“Perhaps,” Mycroft said, standing up. “Thank you very much, Sherlock. I’ll be around next week to insure John goes to the symphony with you. Do try not to antagonise him too much beforehand; at least think about getting rid of the bacteria samples, won’t you?”

“Did I ask for your advice?”

“He might not spend all of his free time sulking elsewhere if you didn’t use his mug as a beaker.”

“Goodbye, Mycroft!”

*********

tbc

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From the poem Absence, by Pablo Neruda, which you can read at http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/absence-56/


	3. Chapter 3

*********

Mycroft took some care in entering the sitting room. It was clean, and Sherlock was sitting on a chair, not his sofa. It may have been a trap.

“John will be back shortly,” Sherlock said. His voice was tight. “The suit arrived before you did.”

“I thought it would lend a bit of veracity to my meddling,” Mycroft said airily. “Did Anita choose well?”

Sherlock didn’t answer. He was staring determinedly at the far wall, a slight hint of colour in his cheeks--

“Oh,” Mycroft said, with a sudden flush of horror. “You had him try it on.”

Sherlock made an almost anguished sound. “An hour ago. I haven’t been able to leave this chair.”

“I could have Mummy call you,” Mycroft offered. He couldn’t imagine anything more likely to have a... withering effect.

Sherlock’s eyes shut tight and he grimaced. “Thank you for that, brother mine. Now the entire night is ruined.”

“Oh, tosh.” Mycroft got the Neruda booklet out of his briefcase and opened it, flicking through the pages idly. “You’ll find your happy place again far too soon for my comfort.”

“What are you looking at?” Sherlock demanded, unfolding at last and standing up to pace. Mycroft sniffed and kept to his book, only to have it snatched from his fingers by a very ungrateful little brother.

“Give that back!” Mycroft cried out, standing up.

“Oh, what is this rubbish?” Sherlock said, turning his back and sneering at the pages. “What more can they tell you? I am neither good nor bad but a man, and they will then associate the danger of my life, which you know and which with your passion you shared. And good, this danger--”

A small sound from the doorway had them both turning around swiftly to see John standing at the door, not in the suit, bearing milk, and looking at Sherlock with a faint and incredulous grin. “Sherlock. Are you reading poetry?”

“It’s Mycroft’s,” Sherlock snapped, shoving the book back into his brother’s hand.

“Yes, it’s mine,” Mycroft agreed immediately, carefully going through the pages and smoothing them out, as if to wipe away Sherlock’s rough handling.

“Right. Well. Neruda?” John said, and Mycroft and Sherlock shared a quick look of surprise. “Don’t look so shocked. Nothing like love poetry to get into a girl’s good graces.” There was some colour in his cheeks, now, too. “And Neruda’s, well. He’s the best.”

“Yes, well.” Mycroft shook himself. “John, if you would be so kind--”

“Is this about the concert, and the suit?” John asked. He finally entered the room, avoided meeting Sherlock’s gaze, and went into the kitchen. “Sherlock said you want him to investigate something there?”

“Ah, not exactly,” Mycroft said, and ignored the poisonous look Sherlock was shooting him. “It’s more that I want someone to notice Sherlock there, as he knows that Sherlock is related to me, and I just... I want him to sweat a bit. You understand, I’m sure. I’m hoping that Sherlock is riveted by the performance, but just in case, perhaps, you could remind him that he’s there for a reason, and keep him from running off?”

There was a long moment of silence.

“Well. That sounds terribly convincing,” John said at last, sounding a bit stunned, and Sherlock’s mouth fell open. Mycroft maintained his pleasant, polite expression only due to years of practice. He didn’t mention that John should know all about ‘convincing,’ considering his end of the miserable Bruce-Partington Plans case, because Mycroft was a gentleman.

“This is like the Korean elections thing, isn’t it?” John continued, sounding resigned. “We don’t need to know about it?”

“Precisely,” Mycroft said, and managed a smile.

“Right. Next time, just say,” John said to both of them, and put the milk away. “It’s not like I wouldn’t end up going along with it anyway.”

Mycroft took his leave. Sherlock was looking thoughtful, and that never boded well.

*********

In a sterling effort to prove that Mycroft Holmes was not the only force capable of engineering random encounters, fate had him running into Detective Inspector Lestrade on his way out the door--very nearly literally.

“Oh god, it’s you,” Lestrade said, and then blushed bright red. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that.”

“Not out loud, anyway,” Mycroft said, very aware of the poetry book in his hand, and if flowers were enough to give the Inspector cause to worry about Mycroft’s mental state then what would the Neruda do? Why had he thought it a good idea to use only briefcases that automatically locked?

The blush got deeper, and Lestrade cleared his throat and ducked his head, looking up at Mycroft through his eyelashes. “Sorry, I’m just in hurry. Sherlock nicked my warrant card again.”

Mycroft was going to dream about those eyelashes. “Godspeed, then, Inspector,” he managed after taking a deep breath and sidled around him, keeping the book out of his line of sight.

“Oi, are you all right?” Lestrade called after him, sounding a bit concerned, although Mycroft wasn’t exactly an objective judge on that score, and was certainly reading something into it that wasn’t there.

“Aren’t you in a hurry? Or did you forget?” Mycroft called back, tucking the book into his jacket. He looked back over his shoulder for a last, lingering glance and Lestrade was still there, watching him, half-turned as if to follow. Mycroft almost dropped his umbrella.

“You’re acting suspicious, Mycroft Holmes,” Lestrade said, narrowing his eyes, and Mycroft was going to have stern words with a universe that was determined to throw Gregory Lestrade at him in the very moment he had incriminating, stalker-y evidence on his person. Didn’t he deserve some happiness or hope thereof? Didn’t he deserve even a chance of getting off at some point in this decade?

“Wishful thinking. One would suspect you of trying to delay your meeting with my brother. That’s cruel, Inspector, very cruel,” Mycroft said, shaking his head. “He looks up to you.”

“Right,” Lestrade said, laughing openly. “Have a good day, Mr. Holmes.”

“And yourself,” Mycroft said, turning away again. He got ten steps before he realised that he’d walked away from Lestrade when the man was willing to talk to him and almost bruised his forehead, slapping his palm against it.

*********

-Help

Mycroft stared at the text and unknown number for a full ten seconds before replying.

-I beg your pardon? MH

The next three texts appeared, rapidfire, from two unknown numbers.

-Contralto attempting seduce JW

-Touching his hair

-Im sorry stranger stole my phone n texted u

Mycroft sighed and began the long process of closing up the office for the night, texting with one hand.

-Calm down and drape yourself over him like usual. MH

-Got it back tho u no him? Ur boyfriend?

-DIDNT WORK SHES LAUGHING AT ME

-Bc if not can i have number thx

Mycroft was tempted, but...

-Terribly sorry, he has a fiance.

-HAVE IRENE ADLER DEPORTED I WILL ATTEND CHRISTMAS NO FIGHT

-Shame well u busy 2nite ;-)

Mycroft was going to have to get a new number. Again.

-Terribly sorry, I am married.

-SHES TOUCHING HIS FACE

-Damn good 1s always taken

-GODDAMN YOU HELP ME

-I can’t have a woman deported for touching your flatmate’s face. Give me something to work with. MH

-U no wear to find me if u change mind cuttie

-And use your own phone. There is a disturbed teenager texting me now. MH

There was a pause in which Mycroft said a quiet goodnight to Anita, who was calling the car around.

-White male 52 yrs help me or I give him your home phone

Mycroft was also going to have to move.

*********

tbc

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "And because Love Battles" by Pablo Neruda, at http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/and-because-love-battles/
> 
> I lost my copy of "Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair." I'm inconsolable.


	4. Chapter 4

*********

Mycroft took another sip of wine and tried to watch the movie. It was just so very difficult when the people involved took no pains to create any sort of veracity. That woman was as Norwegian as Mycroft was, and the French captain was pure English, anyone could see it. At least the wine was decent.

His phone rang.

“Anita, this movie is terrible,” he said, bringing the phone up to his ear on the second try. “First of all, it clearly does not take place in Casablanca.”

“Uh, Mr. Holmes?”

Lestrade. Mycroft almost dropped the phone, and succeeded admirably in dropping his glass of wine instead. “Oh. Detective Inspector Lestrade. Hello. Shit, that’s going to stain.”

A stunned sort of silence on the other end. Mycroft ran through what he’d said, and blushed in horror.

“I beg your pardon. I seem to have--oh, oh no. I lost the thread.” Weren’t they singing in German? Why were they singing in French now? Wasn’t that man supposed to be Czech?

“The thread?” Lestrade asked weakly. Poor thing, was he tired? Mycroft rather thought so.

“Something terrible has happened to Humphrey Bogart. I think. They film these scenes out of order, don’t they? That’s terrible. Things are all wrong.” Mycroft pressed his free hand to his forehead. “I’m so sorry. Hollywood is a crime against humanity. I’ll have it sorted.”

“You’re pissed,” Lestrade accused, trying to sound serious but managing only horrified and amused. “Your brother’s being arrested for breaking into a woman’s house and you’re getting pissed watching Humphrey Bogart films.”

“Oh dear. Shall I sort that first?” Mycroft paused the film gratefully. “Irene Adler, is it? John must have given her his contact information. It’s fine; Anita can handle it. Have you seen Anita? The wine is wonderful. Tell her that, won’t you?”

“Mycroft,” Lestrade said plaintively, “I can’t have a consultant who’s been arrested for breaking into a woman’s house for any reason, much less because John bloody Watson gave her his phone number! Who’s Anita?”

Mycroft stood, and fell over the coffee table. “Fuck! Oh. Oh, are you gone? Hello? Anita, the phone isn’t working. Anita?”

The phone rang again, and he snatched it up and demanded, “Was that table always there?”

Lestrade sounded choked. “How much have you had, Mycroft?”

“What, of the wine?” Mycroft thought about it. “About half a bottle.”

“You don’t drink much, do you?” It wasn’t actually a question, and Mycroft felt a warm little glow at the thought of Lestrade deducing something about him. How delightfully intimate.

“It isn’t the Holmes way to leave something half-finished,” he said primly, looking at the bottle, which had survived his tumble over the table. Hadn’t even moved, really. Had a rather smug countenance about it, too.

“Don’t you dare have any more.”

“Why not? Did you want some?” Mycroft looked at the sofa. “I think the glasses are in the kitchen.”

“Right.” There was a pause in which Mycroft leaned against the sofa, shut his eyes, and listened to Lestrade breathe. “Give me your address, and I’ll be right over.”

Mycroft opened one eye; tried to look at his phone quizzically. “For wine?”

“Yeah,” Lestrade sighed. Was he tired? Mycroft frowned.

“You could get your own.” Why would he say that? Why would he even-- “I didn’t mean it. Please come. We can start the movie over. I’ll find the glasses. Fuck!”

“Stop trying to get up!”

“Was that table always there?” Mycroft asked again, rubbing his knee.

*********

-Are you going to get me out of this? SH

Mycroft stared at the message. His brother was damnably clever, but they would have confiscated his phone, surely. He carefully typed a message back.

-Wgo is this

-Rum cake, was it? SH

-Noi had wine mg

-Good Lord. SH

-Arent yoi in prson

-I’m sending help. Try not to drink anything else. SH

-Vry well

Mycroft considered the space between his knee and the table again, and this time, managed to get to his feet. He had to change his suit. It was sticky and smelled of wine.

“Your fault,” he told the glass lying innocently on the floor. He would trod on it to teach it a lesson, but what if he didn’t have any more? From what would Lestrade drink?

He should wash it. There were fingerprints on it.

Ten minutes elapsed before his phone rang again. Mycroft, who had managed to wash his glass and remove jacket and waistcoat and set them to soaking in the sink, walked into two doorways before it stopped ringing.

“I walked all the way here,” he told it, “so you had best ring again.”

It did. He snatched it up. “Anita?”

“Amelia, sir. Your brother is out on bail, the Detective Inspector is outside your door, and John Watson is on his way in a cab with orders to put you in a drunk tank.”

Mycroft blinked. “Do I need to be in a drunk tank?”

There was a pause. “Sir, in the interests of having a job come morning, I will say no.”

“Oh, good.”

“Should I send the Inspector away?”

Mycroft tilted his head, then tilted it back when the room started to spin gently. “I thought you wanted to keep your job.”

“Sir, with respect, you are drunk.”

“Amelia, with respect, that is how half the world gets lucky.”

The silence was much longer, and much louder. “Sir, please understand in the morning that I am between a rock and a hard place--”

Mycroft frowned. “That is hardly appropriate.”

“--that was not innuendo, sir.”

“You’re certain?”

The silence was short, but so loud that Mycroft had to pull the phone away from his ear for a moment.

“I will text the entrance code to the Inspector immediately. Good luck, sir.”

“Thank you, Amelia.”

*********

Sherlock picked up his glass of water, trying to hide his smirk. “And?”

“And?” Mycroft repeated, fairly shaking with rage. “And your cock-blocking flatmate called Lestrade and told him what you said!”

Sherlock looked impressed. “I didn’t realise you were so well-versed in the dating vernacular.”

“They forced me to drink two glasses of water and take two pills and then they sent me to bed!” Mycroft put his hand over his glass as the waiter popped over again, water pitcher at ready. “Please, if you’d like a tip, just go away.”

“No, wait; I’d like a piece of the lemon meringue,” Sherlock said, and grinned at Mycroft, who was turning green, he knew it. “Still feeling ill, brother mine? John says you should try to eat something.”

“Unless he’s in your pocket, he hasn’t said anything you can hear,” Mycroft snarled. “Ugh, didn’t you do this in uni? How did you stand it?”

Sherlock shrugged. “It isn’t so bad when you’re young.”

“Has it sufficiently distracted John from your theft of Ms. Adler’s phone?” Mycroft asked, fiddling with his napkin. “What luck for you that she had all those incriminating photos. Really, what was his highness thinking?”

“Who cares?” Sherlock flicked his glass of water moodily. “My night was interrupted. You are morally obligated to get me new tickets.”

“Your night?” Mycroft cried out. “What about mine? Casablanca and half a bottle of wine! I should still be in bed with that man!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

*********

tbc


	5. Chapter 5

*********

Mycroft did care about his brother, because futility was apparently his colour. So he did purchase a new set of tickets and take the car around to Baker Street to deliver them, detouring slightly on the way to make a quick stop at the awkward on-a-case wine shop, which was apparently where his assistant had purchased the lovely wine last weekend.

Arella had also found him another Ingrid Bergman film to watch, Gaslight. She’d suggested that perhaps if he started the wine before watching the movie, he might be able to suspend his disbelief more readily. Mycroft was willing to experiment.

“You’re drinking again?” Sherlock cried out when he’d entered the flat. “I’m calling Mummy.”

“I’m trying to watch the horrible old Ingrid Bergman films; don’t you dare tell her,” Mycroft said, holding the wine closer to his body. “I’ll tear your tickets in half if you do, and have you arrested for public indecency. Anyway, I thought I’d recommend it; it’s really rather good.”

“Alcohol clouds the mind,” Sherlock muttered, but he did take the bottle and scan it. “Ugh, French, of course.”

“Mais oui,” Mycroft said, and carefully took a seat. “I thought I’d warn you, and promise to pour roughly half down the sink.”

“We ought to get you a chaperone as well,” Sherlock said darkly. “Eat something beforehand, and not your three vegetables and two strips of chicken! How is your blood pressure?”

“Better on the days in which I don’t speak with you,” Mycroft said truthfully, and sighed. “Your tickets, brother mine. Enjoy your evening with your flatmate, and better luck to you in this round.”

Sherlock took the tickets with his free hand, still inspecting the wine. “I should pour the entire thing down the sink. You’re a terror when drunk; I know it, you know it, and Argentina knows it.”

“That was vodka. It’s entirely different.”

Sherlock dismissed this with a wave of the tickets-holding hand. “How am I to get John to come along this time?”

“When have you ever had trouble getting me to do anything?” John groused from behind them. Mycroft and Sherlock very carefully did not jump, though they locked eyes to silently blame the other for not hearing him come down the stairs. “And what’s that? Oh.”

He stopped, looking from the bottle of wine to the tickets with a small, peculiar smile on his face.

“It’s Mycroft’s,” Sherlock said quickly, and shoved the bottle at his brother. Mycroft, still considering John’s smile, shook his head and took a step back.

“Not this time, Sherlock,” he said, and saw that John’s smile grew. “I have faith in you.”

“What are you blathering on about?” Sherlock demanded, his voice rising. He gestured imperiously with the bottle. “Take it.”

“John,” Mycroft said, nodding to him, and managing a small smile of his own at John’s grin. He walked easily around his brother, ignoring the sputtering.

“Mycroft, wait!” John said, and followed him out the door. Mycroft paused at the head of the stairs, watching as John carefully shut the sitting room door and turned to face him, blushing slightly. “I just--thanks. For, you know. Everything?”

“It’s nothing,” Mycroft started to say.

“I mean, we would have--I would have figured it out, eventually,” John said, and scratched at his eyebrow. “But thank you for showing him how--how to say it in a way I’d understand.”

“A shared parlance,” Mycroft murmured, and felt his stomach sink.

“Yes, exactly,” John said, and laughed. “I’m better with romantic gestures than theft, or whatever he calls it, appropriation.” He shook his head, smiling fondly. “Thank you. For the wine, and the tickets. And the suit, of course. I promise I’ll refrain from flirting with any lovely women tonight; there’ll be no bail required.”

“Capital,” Mycroft said, managing a nod and a slanted smile. John went back into the sitting room, revealing for a moment that Sherlock was nowhere at all near the door, which meant he had, of course, been listening. But that wasn’t what was occupying Mycroft’s thoughts.

A shared parlance. Making oneself clear in a language that both speakers understood.

Good Lord. What sort of wooing did a man like Lestrade expect, if flowers and unexpected meetings were out? Outright honesty? Was Mycroft even capable of that?

His phone beeped with a text, and Mycroft looked at it with trepidation.

-You’ve already embarrassed yourself as much you can. Nothing to lose now. SH

-Shouldn’t you be snogging your flatmate silly? MH

-I am. SH

“Are you seriously texting right now?” John demanded, his voice carrying easily through the closed sitting room door into the hall.

Mycroft shook his head and took his leave.

*********

And found himself hesitating just outside the diner at which he knew Lestrade frequently took his lunch, oftentimes with other members of his department or team.

He called Arella. “Help me.”

“Deep breaths, sir. Karl informed me of your destination. Check your hair and teeth and adjust your--well, no, that’s not applicable. Adjust your tie, sir.”

Mycroft did as she said and asked, “Has this helped?”

“It should have boosted your confidence, sir, although the tie is perhaps not the best substitute for... well.”

“Oh. Oh!” Mycroft thought about it. “Perhaps the most acceptable substitute, though.”

“I thought so, sir.”

After another deep breath, and another tie adjustment, Mycroft scraped up enough confidence to walk through the door, to find Lestrade and his sergeant, Sally Donovan, readying themselves to leave.

“Oh. Er, Mycroft. Hello,” Lestrade said, looking nervously at Sally. She, in turn, was giving Mycroft her best thundercloud impression, which didn’t seem entirely called for, Mycroft thought with some pique.

“I was wondering if you would like to have a drink,” Mycroft said, cringing at the inelegance of the situation, and added weakly, “with me.”

“A drink,” Lestrade repeated.

Sally’s face, if anything, got more thundery, and Mycroft readjusted his grip on his umbrella. He cleared his throat and said, “Yes.”

Lestrade shook his head, and Mycroft felt the world falling away under his feet. “What about Anita?”

“What?” Mycroft managed through the mists of embarrassment and failure.

“Anita. Your missus? The one who got you the wine the other night.” Lestrade was staring at his feet, a sickly colour on his cheeks.

“You--my assistant?” Mycroft asked witlessly.

Lestrade met his eyes at last, a mixture of horror and hope in their depths. “Your assistant?”

They stared at each other for a full minute before Sergeant Donovan coughed. Loudly. The thunder was gone, and she seemed to be repressing a full-on grin, although just barely.

“You want to go for a drink,” Lestrade said again, looking dazed.

“Yes.” The world was back, but it was a bit spinny, so Mycroft added, just to be certain, “With you.”

“Oh, for the love of--” Sally cut herself off, hissing at Lestrade, “I told you that when a man gets you flowers, he fancies you!”

Lestrade turned a rather alarming shade of red, but it was no less an attractive colour than the usual hue. “Yes, um. Yes, I would lo--like to. Have a drink.”

“With me,” Mycroft said, again, just to be certain. Sally threw her hands up in the air and walked away.

“So,” Lestrade said.

“My place? I mean,” Mycroft hurried to add, blushing, “we could have wine, and watch a film.”

Lestrade looked faintly alarmed. “Only a little wine.”

“Of course!” Mycroft felt the too-familiar sensation of wishing the floor would open up and swallow him, but it was abated by Lestrade’s sudden, boyish grin.

“Yeah, all right,” he said, and Mycroft was grinning back, buoyed by relief. “What film?”

“Oh, er. I’ve rented one. Gaslight,” Mycroft said, as soon as he could remember.

“Oh, I love that one! Have you seen it? She marries this bloke, and then she thinks she’s going crazy; it’s brilliant.”

“Oh, really?” Mycroft said, and hoped that Lestrade wouldn’t notice if he didn’t, actually, watch the film.

“You’ll love it,” Lestrade said enthusiastically, taking his arm and propelling him out of the diner. Well, maybe he’d try.

*********

fin

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so sorry. Sometimes I think I'm funny. And then this sort of thing happens.
> 
> If I had a beta, that would prove I had shame, and if I had shame, I would not post fic.


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